


Dulce Amarum Domum

by jeremystollemyheart



Category: The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows - Stiles/Drewe/Grahame
Genre: Followed by Fluff, M/M, Mild Angst, either way there’s no heterosexual explanation for it, the musical really gave ratty an anxiety disorder and called it a day, this could also be read as a queerplatonic relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:00:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28008090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeremystollemyheart/pseuds/jeremystollemyheart
Summary: Based on the West End musical.“A journey is splendid, there’s so much to learn. But once it has ended, you know you’ll return.”The journey to Mole End breaks Ratty’s heart a little bit (not that he wants to admit it).
Relationships: Mole/Rat (Wind in the Willows)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14





	Dulce Amarum Domum

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a conversation with Catsafari about Ratty’s feelings during “A Place to Come Back to.”

The room is dark and the silence feels heavy to Rat, who has been lying in it for the past fifteen minutes. Beside him, Mole is already fast asleep. Or at least that’s what he thinks, until he hears, “What’s the matter, Ratty?”

“What? Nothing. My head aches,” he says all of this in quick succession, making an attempt to cover up his pensiveness. He can tell immediately that it doesn’t work. Often, in the dark is where Mole is at his most intuitive. Sunlight muddles him, he says. 

“It’s more than that, though, isn’t it?”

There is an implicit “ _would you like to talk about it_ ” built into the words. He searches under the blanket for his paw, but Rat jerks it out of his grip before he can give it a reassuring squeeze. He senses the tactical mistake as soon as he commits it. Mole freezes. Anyone else would be miffed, and maybe he is. Rat feels a twinge of shame deep in his core because he can’t rightfully say why he won’t offer his paw. It’s not as though he’s angry at Mole, because he isn’t. He’s maybe a little hurt, potentially feeling a little fragile, but he’s not  _ angry _ . And Mole, who is not privy to his inner turmoil, deserves better than to receive such a cool response. 

And now he cannot pretend that nothing is wrong. 

He turns on his side so that the two of them are almost nose to nose. Hearing the movement, Mole reaches for his glasses and lights a lamp. He turns back face to face with Rat and they squint at each other in the new light.

“Ratty?” He prompts at last, his expression curious and cautious. There are no excuses to be made now. When he responds, the words explode as though they have been kept under pressure for too long (and to be fair, they have). 

“Did you mean what you said, about going home at the end of journeys?”

“Pardon me?” 

“Did you?”

“Ratty, I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re—“

“At your little home. At Mole End. All that about how journeys and adventures are wonderful, but you know at the end of them you’ll always return home?” 

Those words had caught in his head months ago and festered there. He never meant to drag them into the light of day (or, to be more correct, the lamp light of late evening), and yet here they are, laid bare. 

Mole still looks a touch confused. When he says, “Of course,” it’s slow and cautious, as though he isn’t sure his answer is correct.

It isn’t. 

Rat flops over onto his back in a bit of a huff. He reminds himself again that he isn’t angry. But he feels suddenly as though he has to hold pieces of himself together to keep from shattering, “Well, you might have told me,” he says at last. Actually, he would take angry or accusing over the faint, breakable tone he lands on. 

“ _ What _ is the matter?” Mole asks at last, scrambling to sit up, and to try to puzzle his way through this conversation. He is tousled and sleepy looking, and it makes Rat’s heart ache for something he hasn’t lost yet.

“Mole,” he says at last, trying to keep his voice from hitching, “If this,” he gestures around, “is an adventure to you, or a holiday, then grand. But it isn’t for me. So if you’ve got plans to return home, I think you ought to have told me.” 

Realization finally creeps into Mole’s expression, followed by mild horror. That fades too, into gentle amusement, which makes Rat feel all the more like the lump in his throat is going to suffocate him. 

“Is that what’s been going on in that head of yours?” Mole murmurs, lightly touching a paw to Rat’s temple, and then moving to run it through his hair, “No wonder it aches.” 

Rat wants to close his eyes and relax into his touch, to try to forget his own outburst and simply enjoy this tender moment, however long it may last. But he can’t. He won’t let himself. “Mole,” he says, trying for “stern,” and landing on “abjectly miserable.”

“Poor Ratty. Did you really think it could be home without you?” 

The question halts Rat’s breathing. This time it is his turn to stammer out, “Pardon?”

“Of course I want to go home at the end of an adventure. All we animals do. And Mole End is home to me, just as your river is home to you—and to me, these days. Just as Toad’s caravan was, as long as you were there. And I hope one day Mole End will be a sort of home to you, too, because I think homes change and grow and—and multiply, and it’s not going to  _ be _ home anymore if I’m there alone.”

It makes sense, all at once, and Rat feels a little ashamed. But more than ashamed, he feels elated. He feels relieved. Once again, the lump in his throat threatens to choke him. But this time the tears pricking dangerously at the corners of his eyes are happy ones. “The same, Moley. The very same. The river is my home, true enough. But it wouldn’t be—couldn’t be—without you anymore. At least, I don’t think it could.” 

The river—his river—feeling empty without Mole is a fear that has been encroaching ever faster over the past few weeks. He can’t think of rowing it alone anymore. 

“I’m awfully glad. And here’s to the hope that we’ll never have to find out, either of us.” 

With those words the change is instantaneous. Mole End no longer feels like a haunted house in the back of his mind. It becomes as cheerful as it felt on that night of singing mice and mint humbugs. And Rat suddenly finds that he fits into it perfectly (although in reality he recalls it feeling a little cramped). He breathes deeply for what feels like the first time in months, and imagines that he can smell rich earth, rather than the familiar scent of the river. 

“And besides,” Mole adds, after a long moment of companionable silence, during which Rat almost drifts off into his blissful fantasy, “Our adventure is far from over, I dearly hope.”

“Not over,” he agrees drowsily. He feels too tired to move, now that he has let go of months of doubt and fear. He could stay like this forever. 

“Does your head still ache?” Mole is still stroking his hair and massaging just the right spot between his eyes, soothing away the last of his tension. 

“Hm? Oh, like the devil,” he fibs. He is sure Mole can  _ tell _ it’s a fib, by the warm and relaxed way he drawls out the words. But if he can then he says nothing, just turns down the lamp and continues to fuss over him until he falls asleep, dreaming of a home that is newly his. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you like Wind in the Willows, come talk to me on Tumblr @jeremystollemyheart!!


End file.
